


the words we press into our skin

by hudders-and-hiddles (huddersandhiddles)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Slow Build, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:23:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6016333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddersandhiddles/pseuds/hudders-and-hiddles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>When it finally fades to silence and they’re left staring at each other across the cool chasm between the pillows, John says, serious but soft, “I mean it, you know. We’ll go as slow as you want, and we can stop any time you want, too. Okay?” Sherlock nods his understanding. “Do you want to do anything tonight?”</i> </p><p> <i>“Yes, but…”</i></p><p> <i>“Slow. I know,” John says.</i><br/> </p><p>When Sherlock and John finally get together, John promises to take things slow. Very, very slow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. stay

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd or Britpicked.

_“Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.”  
\- Margaret Atwood _

 

* * *

 

 

“Stay.”

Sherlock’s voice is faint, hesitant, the single word more question than command.

 

John had only come in to make sure Sherlock was okay. After a case he’s normally all restless limbs and manic energy, the adrenaline rolling through him in crashing waves, but something about this one had seemed to unsettle him, to pull him into himself, to turn him introspective and taciturn. He had been worryingly still in the cab, staring out the window in silence, lost in thought, and after absently removing his coat and scarf and gloves when they got home, he’d gone straight to his room without a word. John had left him to it for a while, but curiosity and concern had gotten the better of him, and he had shuffled into Sherlock’s room to find him sitting on the edge of his bed staring at the floor in the growing darkness.

“Sherlock, you okay?”

The only response was a nod so slight it might have been a tremble.

“You sure?”

Another nod, barely stronger than the first.

Not knowing what else to do, John had turned to leave, making it as far as the doorway before Sherlock had spoken. _Stay_?

 

He turns back to find Sherlock now turned toward him, the same question writ large across his face, twisting in the hopeful arch of his brow, pulling at the corner of his lips. But his eyes, his eyes are unguarded in a way John has never seen, and when he looks into them, he knows. He knows what Sherlock’s thinking, what he’s saying, what he’s asking. This isn’t stay with me for a moment. This is stay with me tonight, stay with me tomorrow, stay all week, all month, all year. Stay for a lifetime. Stay always. Stay.

And there’s only one answer John could possibly give.

His feet carry him back to Sherlock’s side, closing the distance between them as if crossing an ocean. As if choosing his fate. As if coming home. His hands find Sherlock’s face, the first hint of stubble rasping against the smooth skin of John’s palms as they cradle those familiar, delicate angles, while Sherlock’s hands settle light but steady into the gentle dip of John’s waist. His chin tips down, as Sherlock’s tips up, their breath warm, lips trembling, as they meet in the middle. Their mouths slot together the same way their lives have, fitting around one another as if they were moulded that way. Sherlock’s lips are plush and full, as soft as John had imagined, and when he traces them with the tip of his tongue, Sherlock’s tiny gasp sends a shiver down John’s spine. A clever tongue slips out to meet his, and they learn each other in teases, in flicks, in tiny little sipping breaths. Sherlock tastes of silver smoke and strong coffee, of moonlight and music and memory. Little licks turn to long curls of their tongues, timidity giving way to temptation as they lose themselves in the kiss, John’s fingers sliding back to trail along Sherlock’s scalp and twist into silky curls, not pulling, just anchoring himself, the hairs held taut between his fingers reminding him that this is real.

John breaks away with a series of smaller, lingering kisses whispered against Sherlock’s lips, and the corners of his mouth quirk into a smile as he takes in the rapid rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest, the fingers that come up to trace his lips as if comparing the sensations, the flutter of his lashes as his eyes flit back and forth beneath their lids replaying the moment, analysing it, committing it to memory. He watches and waits, and Sherlock finally opens his eyes, bright in the deepening twilight, shining with joy and relief and a hundred nameless emotions that all together add up to love. “John,” he breathes, full of wonder, and John kisses him again.


	2. i love you

“I love you.”

The words drip from John’s mouth like honey, golden and thick and dewy sweet, and Sherlock licks them from his lips in reply. John’s smile breaks wide, big and bright but a mere echo of the happiness he feels, and he says it again because he can. “I love you.” He kisses Sherlock soft and achingly slow, a communion of tender lips and quiet tongues, and when they pull apart it’s only long enough to take a breath before they meet again. He presses the words into the corner of Sherlock’s lips, the crest of his cheekbones, the curve of his chin. “I love you. I love you.” John kisses the words into his skin. “I love you.” He can’t stop saying them now that he’s started, and Sherlock gasps when John licks them into the hollow below his jaw, whispers them into the sinuous stretch of his neck, breathes them into the tender curl of his ear, before returning to slip them silently into his mouth.

They fall back into the bed and kiss until it’s fully dark, until the moon rises high and London slows its ceaseless rush. John kisses his affirmation, his promise, into every inch of Sherlock he can find, and when he runs out of skin, he shifts to straddle Sherlock’s hips as his hands slip the top button of Sherlock’s shirt free. He runs a finger down the strip of skin that appears and follows it with his mouth, Sherlock trembling beneath his lips. Another button, another trace of his finger, another skim of his lips. Down down down until he can tug Sherlock’s shirt free of his waistband and push the sides open wide. John’s hands smooth up his quivering belly and the finely dusted planes of his chest, and Sherlock pulls in a shaking breath. “Shhhhhh,” John says soothingly as he captures Sherlock’s mouth again.

But when the shivering doesn’t stop, John draws back, concerned. “Okay?” Sherlock nods, quick and small, but doesn’t meet his gaze. “Hey,” John says softly, tilting Sherlock’s chin up to catch his eye. “If this isn’t okay, you can tell me. I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do.” Sherlock closes his eyes and nods again. John isn’t sure what that nod means, but he takes in the closed eyes, the way Sherlock’s teeth are biting into his lower lip, the too quick rise and fall of his chest, the shivers still wracking his body, and thinks he’s starting to see the bigger picture here. “Sherlock, look at me,” he says gently. It takes a moment for Sherlock to respond, but when their eyes meet, John smiles. “Have you done this before?” A pause and then the smallest shake of Sherlock’s head. “That’s okay, you know? It’s fine.”

“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock snaps, haughty but without his usual bite.

John just smiles again and presses another kiss to his lips, firm but chaste, and Sherlock relaxes under him, though the quivers still shake him against John’s stomach and chest. “Do you want to do this? You can say no, and I won’t be offended.”

“I do,” Sherlock says quickly. “I want to. It’s just…” He swallows thickly around the words in his throat, struggles to bring up the right one until finally he manages, “Overwhelming.”

“Ok,” John says, slipping off of Sherlock to lie by his side instead, a careful barrier of space between them. “Then we’ll go slow, love. Very slow.”

Sherlock’s brow wrinkles even as a smile slides onto his face. “What?” John asks.

“You called me love.”

“Oh.” The endearment had slipped out without John even noticing. “Is that okay?”

Sherlock laughs, and it’s a thing full of wonder–of confusion and nerves and disbelief and starry-eyed amazement. “Yes. I think… I think I like it.”

“Good. I do, too,” he replies. “Love.” And now they both laugh, the sound bright and warm in the darkness of the bedroom.

When it finally fades to silence and they’re left staring at each other across the cool chasm between the pillows, John says, serious but soft, “I mean it, you know. We’ll go as slow as you want, and we can stop any time you want, too. Okay?” Sherlock nods his understanding. “Do you want to do anything tonight?”

“Yes, but…”

“Slow. I know,” John says. “Can I kiss you?” And Sherlock nods again, so John slips forward to kiss him, just soft swipes of his lips, gentle pressure with no heat, and a pleased sound pulls from Sherlock’s throat. Only when Sherlock’s lips part and his tongue sweeps across the seam of John’s mouth does he deepen the kiss, opening to allow Sherlock to lick inside, their tongues curling together slow and sensuous.

They lie there side-by-side and kiss until they’re panting. When they part, John’s hands seek out the bottom hem of his jumper, but he looks to Sherlock before he makes a move. _Okay?_ A nod, and John pulls his jumper and vest together over his head and throws them to the floor. There isn’t much light, only the cool blue-white of the streetlamps and the hazy grey of the cloud-veiled moon, but Sherlock’s eyes rake up and down John’s torso and John knows he’s memorizing every detail he can find, from the soft curves of his waist to the starburst of scar tissue at his shoulder. When Sherlock’s eyes finally finish tracing the contours of his chest and arms and stomach and find their way back to his face, John says, “Now you.”

They undress themselves in turns, not touching, just looking, slowly-revealed skin painted pale by the silver light. John’s eyes glide smoothly down lean arms and strong legs, taut belly and slim hips, his gaze catching on freckles and moles, small nipples, hints of scars, the round pockmark of a single bullet, and the long, hard length settled between Sherlock’s legs. “Gorgeous,” he whispers, and he can feel the shiver that courses up Sherlock’s spine in the meeting of their lips. He chances a brush of his hand across Sherlock’s finely muscled chest, but the tremble that travels up his body settles there and doesn’t stop, so John pulls his hand back again, not wanting to push Sherlock too far or too fast.

Slow, he reminds himself, and instead of reaching for Sherlock again, he brings his hand to his own chest, lets his fingers trace a soft, swirling pattern down his sternum, light and languorous but heavy with intent, and Sherlock’s gaze follows, like moth to a flame, as John slips his hand lower and lower, following the soft trail of hair on his abdomen to where it grows thicker and darker between his legs until he can wrap his hand around his own aching length and stroke. John watches Sherlock’s eyes go wide as he stares breathless at the head of John’s cock, wet and glistening where it pushes out of his foreskin as he strokes down firm and slow before pulling back up from base to tip again.

It shouldn’t be this hot, John thinks, touching himself like this, but with Sherlock’s eyes on him, the feeling of his own hand is electric and the pleasure of it crackles at the base of his spine. A soft moan escapes his lips, and Sherlock’s head snaps up again. It’s all John can do not to turn away from the intensity of that gaze, but the heat and hunger of it draw him in, and he crushes their mouths together again, letting Sherlock lick away the next moan as it curls off his tongue.

When their lips part, their foreheads come together instead, resting against each other as they both watch John’s cock disappear into his fist over and over, tortuously slow and impossibly sensual. And it isn’t enough, not nearly enough when Sherlock is right here with him, wound tight with need, so untouchably close.

Together. That’s what he needs. What they both need. Together.

“You,” John breathes, and Sherlock understands, curling shaking fingers around his own erection and matching John’s pace, their hands moving in time, synced together like their panting breaths and quickening hearts. The heat builds in his belly, wrapping tight and warm around his spine, the flames of it licking up through his ribs and into his chest. Their hands move faster, their hips beginning to rock into the motion, bringing them closer together and farther apart on every tiny thrust, and when their knuckles graze, the shock of it nearly tips John over the edge. Sherlock’s gasping breaths turn to muted moans, the sound of it agonizing in its intimacy in the bare space between their lips. John reaches out with his free hand, desperate for more than just this single point of contact between them, stopping himself short before he can touch Sherlock’s heaving chest, but Sherlock closes the distance with his own hand, lacing their fingers together and holding tight. And the warmth and trust and sheer tenderness of the motion pushes a sob from John’s throat, even as joy floods through him. Sherlock chokes out his name, a soft, broken thing, muffled where John surges forward to swallow it down, Sherlock’s breath sweet on his tongue as their joined fingers squeeze tighter still, clutching them together, desperate and so so close. Sherlock’s body goes taut and he squeezes out a wordless cry, his face contorted in exquisite release, as the pleasure curling around John’s bones pulls tight tight tight and then snaps, his breath rushing out all at once in the shape of Sherlock’s name, and they come apart together.

When his breath slows enough for speech, John says it again, “I love you,” and kisses Sherlock sweet and slow, their fingers still tangled together between them. Smiling softly, Sherlock curls against his chest, tucking himself under John’s arm, flattening his cheek against the smooth expanse of skin over John’s heart, and John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s back, holding him closer as John drifts off to sleep to the rhythm of Sherlock echoing his words, pressing them silently back into his skin. _I love you. I love you. I love you._


	3. good morning

John wakes in the morning to the warm weight of Sherlock pressed along his side, head pillowed on John’s shoulder, body moulded to the contours of John’s smaller frame, legs tangled together under the sheets. He keeps his eyes shut tight and takes a long second to absorb it all, to feel it, to simply exist in this quiet space with the tangerine heat of the sunlight streaming through the windows, the steady thrum of Sherlock’s heart where it beats against his ribs, the whispered in-out of each breath, the sleep-soft smell of him--stronger when John turns his head and nuzzles into the curls on top of Sherlock’s head with a satisfied sigh.

With the movement, Sherlock begins to stir, lashes and limbs twitching to life against John’s skin, and he prepares himself for the flurry of activity that’s likely to come, for Sherlock to push himself away and out the door, already bent on whatever he wants to accomplish today. With someone else, John would take offence, but he long ago decided to accept the whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes.

But when Sherlock blinks awake, he doesn’t jolt into action; he stills. He doesn’t rush off to attend to an experiment or chase after a case; he tilts his face up toward John’s, eyes wide as if uncertain this is real, and when their eyes meet, he smiles--a shy, fragile thing that John needs to taste. Dipping down to meet Sherlock’s lips, he sips at the joy he finds there, golden and fizzy-soft. A hand comes up to press along Sherlock’s jaw and keep him there while John licks into his mouth slow and sweet, not caring that their breath is sleep-sour because there is nothing that could keep him from this on their first morning after. The thought makes him smile against Sherlock’s mouth. Because this is it. There will be no others. It is the last first morning after.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, nuzzling into the corner of the answering smile he can feel on Sherlock’s lips.

“Mmm,” Sherlock replies. “Morning.”

Satisfied, John lets his head fall back against the pillow, and they stay like that, quiet and comfortable, as they finish waking, John’s fingers still absently curled against the line of Sherlock’s jaw, sweeping lightly against the faint stubble, Sherlock’s hand coming up to rest over the even beat of John’s heart. It would be easy to stay here, John thinks, wrapped in this little bubble of warmth, cocooned in what he assumes will now be their bed, but the morning calls with rumbling stomachs and the need for the loo. And so John sweeps a quick kiss against Sherlock’s forehead as he extracts himself from the tangle of limbs and slips off to the bathroom, already thinking about what they should do today. Breakfast. Maybe a trip to the shops. He could make something nice for dinner tonight to celebrate a little. But first he desperately needs a shower.

In a moment of inspiration, he pops his head back through the door into the bedroom to find Sherlock still curled right where he left him, looking as if he isn’t sure what to do with himself. “Shower?” John asks, and Sherlock’s nose crinkles adorably, uncertain as to what exactly John is asking. “Join me?” he clarifies.

Sherlock bites his lip, though the corners of his mouth twitch toward a shy smile, and John turns back into the bathroom, trusting that Sherlock will follow. As he steps under the spray he hears the quiet click of the door and scoots forward to allow space for Sherlock to slip in behind him. The warm water rushes over him, pounding against his scalp and face and shoulders, and he swipes a hand across his belly to rinse away last night’s remaining stickiness, before tilting the shower head higher and turning in time to catch Sherlock’s fleeting look of surprise as the spray begins to wash over his chest and stomach. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and ducks his head under the water, soaking his hair until it’s unrecognizably straight and impossibly darker than usual, and John has to resist the urge to reach out and run his fingers through it, not wanting to take Sherlock unaware.

When Sherlock stands again and blinks the water from his eyes, John reaches past him for the bottle of shower gel. “Hand,” John says, as he flips open the cap. Sherlock lifts his hand, and John squeezes a pool of his ridiculously expensive soap into it, filling the air with the heady scent that makes him think of black pepper and woodsmoke and clove, cool nights under overcast skies and long coats whipping around corners and his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he runs and runs and runs, It’s a scent he knows all too well, one that has caught him by surprise time and time again, sneaking up on him as Sherlock paused next to his chair to hand him a cuppa or crouched next to him to examine a body at a crime scene, one that has never failed to make the warmth pool in his belly and his cock grow plump with desire, one that he’s longed to breathe from Sherlock’s skin in little sips as John kisses down his sternum, in long pulls as Sherlock’s stubble rasps against his cheek, in great gasping breaths as they come apart in each other’s arms.

A hesitant touch pulls him out of his head, and his breath catches as Sherlock sweeps his thumb tentatively across the underside of John’s jaw before smoothing his palm down John’s neck, circling his fingers, swirling into the flesh. Across the rounded cap of his shoulder. Along the sturdy muscles of his deltoid, over his bicep, dipping around to his tricep. Past his elbow and forearm, inside his wrist where his tendons flex at the touch, across the lines of his palm, between his fingers, twining them together for a moment before moving to repeat the pattern on the other arm. He washes John slowly, reverently, arms, then chest, abdomen, sides, back. Sherlock drops to his knees, and John sucks in a sharp breath at the view of Sherlock kneeling before him, his face in line with John’s erection. He steers his imagination away from what it would be like to slip his cock between those lips and feel the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth around him. Slow, he reminds himself. It’s not time for that. Yet.

More soap in hand, Sherlock starts at his feet this time, and John lifts them so that Sherlock can rake his fingers across the bottom, pushing his thumbs into the arches, rubbing at the ball, the heel, at each individual toe until John feels like he could melt into the tiled walls. Sherlock’s confidence seems to grow with every caress, his movements becoming more sure as his deft fingers move over John’s ankles, up his calves and shins in long, smooth strokes. They dig deliciously into the meat of his thighs, slide around to cup and knead at his arse, slip over the bones of his hips, curl into the thatch of hair between John’s legs, nails dragging lightly over John’s skin and sparking every nerve in their wake. His hand is tantalizingly close to John’s cock, and John has to close his eyes, his brow wrinkling at the aching desire he feels, trying not to plead for Sherlock to touch him.

He promised to go at Sherlock’s pace, doesn’t want to make Sherlock feel as if he has to do anything he doesn’t want to do, but he hopes he hopes he hopes that what Sherlock wants right now is to wash the remaining inches of him that are thus far untouched.

When Sherlock’s hand slips between his legs to cup his bollocks, John whimpers and bites his lip to stop himself from crying out. Sherlock tugs lightly, rubs the heel of his palm over John’s skin, lets his fingers dance along the sensitive spot just behind, each movement slow and separate as if testing John’s reaction to each. John pries his eyes open and looks down, expecting to find Sherlock staring at his hand like he would observe an experiment, but instead Sherlock’s eyes are locked on his face, dark and heavy-lidded, his chest flushed and splotchy, his other hand between his own legs spread as wide as the tub will allow so that he can mimic the movements on himself.

That thought--Sherlock pleasuring himself in the same way and at the same time as he pleasures John--sends fire coursing through John’s veins, and suddenly the distance between them is too much, so John cups Sherlock’s face with both hands and tugs, urging him to stand, and pulls him into a heated kiss that’s all wet, curling tongues and heavy, panting breaths.

“C-can I...” Sherlock asks between kisses.

“Oh god please,” John breathes, dropping his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder to watch as Sherlock’s fingers finally finally wrap around him, and John groans deep in his chest. Sherlock’s hand moves down and up again in long, firm pulls, the movement smoothed into a luxurious glide by the soap. Sherlock mouths at John’s neck, nipping lightly where John’s pulse beats hard below his ear, and takes himself in hand, moving in time with the slow, steady pace of his strokes over John’s cock. Sherlock is shaking, less than last night but John can still feel the slight shivers where his brow rests against Sherlock’s shoulder. But John takes it as a good sign that Sherlock doesn’t stop, so he pushes the slight worry away, concentrating instead on remaining on his feet as Sherlock’s hand works over him, over and over, adding a twist at the end of a pull or a brush over the tip between strokes, testing and teasing and driving John mad with anticipation of what might come next. Already close from the long, slow tease of Sherlock’s hands on his body as he washed him up and down, John can feel the hot tension pulling tight in his spine. His chest heaves as he tries to hold back a little longer, wanting Sherlock to finish with him, to see them both pulsing in Sherlock’s hands as they find their climax together.

“John,” Sherlock says, the name breaking on his tongue, and John brings his head up again to find Sherlock’s lips. He licks into Sherlock’s mouth until neither of them can breathe and then pulls back to rest their foreheads together instead. Sherlock’s strokes speed up, and through the ecstasy of it John knows he can’t hold out much more. “Touch me,” Sherlock pants against his lips, his hand curling against John’s waist suddenly as if to force John to comply, but John doesn’t have to be told twice. He wraps his hand around Sherlock’s cock, pulling in the tight, short strokes he watched Sherlock use on himself just last night, and Sherlock’s head falls back, his mouth dropping open in a wordless cry as he comes, pulsing warm and thick against John’s hip. John can feel his own climax spreading hot and silvery beneath his skin, along his spine, deep between his legs, and as Sherlock loses himself in his orgasm and his strokes falter, John covers Sherlock’s hand with his own and fucks into their fists, fast and firm, two three four more times and then he’s coming hard, mind numb with blinding white pleasure.

He comes back to himself with Sherlock’s arms wrapped tight around his back, their bodies shaking together, as Sherlock kisses soft against the curve of his shoulder. John runs his hands over the cool skin on Sherlock’s arms, raised in gooseflesh, and turns them so they’re both in the still warm spray of the shower. He nuzzles along Sherlock’s cheek until he can capture his mouth with gentle lips, kissing him until they’re both warm and steady and smiling softly into one another, before he reaches for the shower gel again.


	4. i want you

They give themselves a week, more by circumstance than design. One week to themselves, locked away in the dove grey cashmere comfort of 221B. Sherlock pushes their chairs closer together, and they read and write and catch up on email. Their bare feet tangle between them, Sherlock’s toes slipping under John’s arches as matching smiles play across their lips. John recruits Sherlock to help him cook, elbows bumping and hands brushing as they reach and rinse and chop and stir. They steal kisses as the water boils, as they hand off ingredients, as the sauce simmers, as they set the table, as they please. They lie curled together on the sofa for lazy afternoon naps, eat takeaway half-naked and painted blue by the flickering light of the telly, dance in the streetlight streaming through the windows at half two in the morning when it feels as if all of London is asleep save for them. They touch and taste and tease, the wondrous novelty of it giving way to a profound familiarity no less astonishing. Kisses turn into slow, gorgeous handjobs in every room of the flat, and Sherlock finds his comfort and his confidence in touching, in being touched, in initiating, in asking, in reaching out and taking, until John can splay his hands on Sherlock’s chest, kiss up his neck and along his jaw without a hint of nervous shivers.

And then one week on, there is a case, their first since this began. By silent agreement, they leave their newfound intimacy locked away in the flat, and at the crime scene, it’s business as usual. Sherlock is razor-sharp and acid-tongued. John stands back and watches him work, interjecting when needed but content to let things spool out as they always have. After a week alone together, it’s hard not to reach, to embrace, to caress rose-soft and whisper-quiet, but when John itches with the need, he restrains himself. Because this is new, and it’s fragile, and it’s something rarely and wholly theirs. And he doesn’t want to share it with anyone else, not yet.

By the time Sherlock solves it, however, John hasn’t felt the supple softness of his skin in ten hours that feel like a lifetime, and the desire is buzzing tinny and hot along his spine. Sherlock has been brilliant, his deductions coming whip-quick, lighting him up like Christmas, and John wants desperately to press their lips together and breathe praise into his lungs. When their eyes meet in the cab on the way back to Baker Street, it’s like mercury, liquid and dangerous and boiling up fast in the cool night air, and John has to peel his gaze away before the desire to push, to take, to flare up bright and burn out fast exceeds the desire to stick to his promise of going slowly. He trains his eyes out the window and keeps his mouth shut tight, pressed into a hard thin line that he bites between his teeth, afraid that if his lips part at all, his adoration and his every desperate desire will slip out and he won’t be able to stop himself from sliding across the seat to lick them into Sherlock’s neck. His fingers twitch in the empty space between them, and when Sherlock’s pinky tentatively curls around his, John can feel the silver sparks of it slither along his bones and spill into his bloodstream, electrifying his entire body with this single touch.

Jingling keys fumble into the lock, and they tumble through the entryway on unsteady legs. The door barely snicks closed before John’s hands are on Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock’s are on his waist, their eyes finally meeting again, flaring like a flame in the night, igniting the air around them in a haze of heat. Sherlock falls back against the door, tugging John with him, John’s hands coming up to tangle in his hair and pull him down against the hot surge of John’s mouth. It’s demanding and urgent and unlike anything they’ve done yet, but after a week wrapped up in each other and then ten hours of nothing at all, it’s exactly what they both seem to need. Caution flares in John’s mind again, the thought that this may be too much too fast, but when he licks into Sherlock’s mouth, he can taste the hunger there, and then Sherlock pulls John’s lower lip between his teeth and the thought slips away into the night with the moan that escapes John’s throat.

John mouths along Sherlock’s jaw, nipping and sucking, the scrape of stubble stinging deliciously against his lips, breath hot and fast in his ear. “God, I want you,” John says, voice dark and rasping, and Sherlock groans in response, his knees giving out a little so that he sinks against the door. John takes advantage of the change in height to squeeze himself between the vee of Sherlock’s legs and push their bodies together from hip to chest. He can feel Sherlock’s cock hard against his own, too many layers of clothes in between but the feeling delicious all the same. 

Sherlock moans his name, and John crashes their mouths together again, one hand pulling Sherlock down hard to meet him and the other slipping lower to the plush curve of his arse, fingers rubbing and kneading against the soft fabric of his trousers. “Fuck,” he pants into Sherlock’s mouth. “How can… It’s only been… Sherlock...” His lips find their way along Sherlock’s cheek, to his ear. He knows he has to ask, though the keening whine coming from Sherlock’s throat and the way his hips are beginning to rock into John ever so slightly tell him that he already knows the answer. “Is this okay?” he asks. “Can I have you… right here against the door?”

Long fingers dig into the solid muscles of his back. “Yes,” Sherlock groans, “please, yes,” his head falling back with a thud, and John can feel his cock twitch at Sherlock’s plea. He kisses down the pale flesh of Sherlock’s neck and finally gives in to the need, rolling his hips forward, his fingers digging hard into Sherlock’s arse, squeezing and pressing and guiding their bodies together hard and fast. 

Sherlock takes John’s cue and slides his hands down, over John’s hips, to cup the soft swell of his arse through his denims, tugging when John tugs, rolling their bodies together again and again, the hard length of their cocks rubbing along each other with glorious friction. John breathes, hot and humid, into Sherlock’s clavicle, before sucking a purple bruise into his skin. He glances up to find Sherlock watching him, lips parted, tongue bitten between his teeth, eyes glittering in the darkness, and all the words John has been holding back all day begin to spill from his tongue. He buries his face in the curve of Sherlock’s neck and murmurs against his skin, “You’re amazing,” delighting in the tiny  _ oh _ that huffs from Sherlock’s lips and the way Sherlock’s hands clutch him tighter. He mouths up Sherlock’s throat, teeth catching at the bobbing point of his adam’s apple, and Sherlock whimpers and pulls John’s body faster against his own, the head of John’s cock slipping against the growing slickness in his pants with every thrust. “Fantastic.” Licking beneath Sherlock’s jaw and grinding into him harder, he can feel his own pleasure swirling higher and hotter in his veins. “Superb.” He nips at the fleshy lobe of Sherlock’s ear, listening to the unsteady draw of Sherlock’s breath, the desperate whine beginning to rattle up his throat as he gets closer. “So fucking brilliant.” John nibbles along Sherlock’s jaw, teeth scraping against stubble as he seeks out Sherlock’s mouth. When he finds it, he slips his tongue inside and kisses Sherlock deep and long, sucking greedily at his lips as they continue to tug and drag and grind, pushing together toward a frantic crescendo. 

He can feel the growing tightness in Sherlock’s body against his, the way his muscles draw taut like bowstrings, quivering not with nerves but with need, his breath erratic, his entire body tense as he dangles on the precipice. That John’s the one who is allowed to do this, to turn Sherlock into a mess of sweaty limbs and kiss-swollen lips, it feels like an accomplishment, like a prize, like a beautiful secret. And suddenly it isn’t quite enough to feel it. He needs to see it. To treasure it. To draw it out and hold it as long as he can. And so even though he’s close, so achingly desperately close, he pulls back, just a little. Just enough to break contact, hooking his thumbs against the front of Sherlock’s hips and pressing back to keep him from following.

“John,” Sherlock whines, his head rolling frantically against the door, as he tries to tug John back to him. 

But John doesn’t give in, keeping Sherlock pinned, the few precious inches of space between them just enough to hold Sherlock there on the edge, to tease him. John takes in the sight before him, the wild mess of Sherlock’s hair, the flush that has mottled the creamy expanse of his neck, the heave of his chest against the binding tightness of his shirt, the arch of his back and the tiny pumps of his hips as he mindlessly tries to seek out more. John looks and looks as Sherlock writhes, looking desperate and debauched and absolutely, gorgeously wanton. It’s nearly enough to push John over the edge, his entire body hot and throbbing with desire. “Perfect,” he breathes, and Sherlock whimpers a sound that could be  _ please _ and John gives in, rolling his body long and hard against Sherlock’s cock as Sherlock sobs a long  _ ohhhh _ and the tension snaps and his breath huffs out and his body arches and arches, and John can feel the pulse of Sherlock’s cock against him before Sherlock collapses boneless back against the door, John’s hands on his arse all that still holds him up.

“Oh fuck,” John pants. “Fuck, that was…” And there aren’t words for what that was as need takes over and he grinds himself against Sherlock’s belly, the slick slide of the head of his cock against the cotton of his pants contrasting deliciously with the rougher drag against his bollocks. He rocks and rocks against the firm muscles of Sherlock’s abdomen, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of Sherlock’s arse with every pull, and when Sherlock’s head falls forward, his mouth latching loosely on to John’s neck, teeth nipping against his overheated skin, the heat pooling in his belly spills over with one loud groan.

  
And then as his head clears and his breath comes back, as the wetness in his pants cools and turns tacky, as the realization dawns that Mrs Hudson’s telly has been turned up far louder than usual, the giggles begin, tickling low in his belly and quaking in his chest. Sherlock joins in, his deeper rumble mixing with the higher pitch of John’s laughter, their bodies trembling happily against each other, and John can’t quite bring himself to be embarrassed about any of it. Not tonight. So instead of being ashamed, instead of pulling apart and hurrying to clean themselves up, John holds Sherlock tighter and smiles and smiles. And when he bends forward again and catches the laughter from Sherlock’s tongue, it tastes like sunshine and citrus and pure, crystalline joy rolling in on turquoise waves.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr as [hudders-and-hiddles](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com).


End file.
